


Repetition is the Key

by Cinaed



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-07
Updated: 2006-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick loves baseball for many reasons, but most of all he loves its easy repetition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repetition is the Key

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-"4x4."

_Swish. Crack. _

Nick resettles his feet, squints at the gleaming machine, waits for it to pelt another ball at him, and then swings. 

_Swish. Crack._

Allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction at the clean hit, he watches the ball strike the net of the batting cage, and then settles back and waits for the next ball to come. He can feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, the tightness in his chest that tells him he should take a break, the ache between his shoulder blades that is a clear indication he’s been doing this for far longer than his body is used to. Nick ignores the notion behind these sensations -- that he needs to take a break or just stop for the day -- in favor of bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet and swinging full-throttle at the blur he knows to be the next ball.

_Swish. Crack. _

There are many reasons Nick loves baseball. He loves the traditional aspects of it, that it’s the good old American pastime. He loves the exhilaration he felt when he was playing, whether his team was winning or losing. He loves the satisfied feeling he experienced after a game (now he feels it after a few hours at the batting cages) when he’d completely exhausted himself. But most of all, he loves the easy repetition and the way he can pinpoint almost every gesture he’s about to use. First, he’ll shift his hands on the bat just so, then bounce lightly on the balls of his feet ever so slightly, tilt his head at the exact same angle every time, and finally he’ll follow through with the swing. 

With such easy repetition, it’s simple for Nick to push everything else away and just think of the sweat trickling down the back of his neck and the feel of the bat in his hands and the sound of the ball coming towards him. He can forget all about the heinous crimes he’s seen during his latest shift, forget about man’s inhumanity towards man, forget about everything but the satisfaction of getting a clean hit off a ball and watching it strike the net. 

_Swish. Crack. Swish. Crack. Swish. Crack--_

"Nick?" 

Nick doesn’t turn towards the quiet call, instead shifting his grip on the bat and waiting for the next ball. 

The quiet voice continues, undeterred. "Nick, ya soaked your shirt clear through. I think it’s time for a break." 

As though the batting cage agrees, there is no next ball, and Nick frowns for a moment before realizing his latest hour is up, and finally steps away from the cage. His sore muscles protest as soon as he lowers the bat, and he winces, then half-smiles as a callused hand reaches out and rests lightly on his shoulders. 

"Ya know," Bobby says in a low, conversational voice that only Nick can hear, "if ya came home, ya could take a nice hot shower and I could give ya a back massage." 

Nick’s half-smile widens to a full grin at the suggestion and the off-hand manner in which Bobby’s presented it, and he says, "Sounds like a plan." He can feel his T-shirt sticking to his skin and if they were home, he would be peeling his shirt off and tossing it towards the laundry hamper, but since they are in public, he settles for tugging on the neck of the T-shirt. 

Bobby wordlessly hands him a water bottle that’s ice-cold, much to Nick’s surprise, and it’s not until they’re halfway home that Bobby asks, eyes trained on the road, "Bad shift?"

Nick gives a little grimace, and feels a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with baseball. "Bad shift," he agrees, voice low and distant, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t want to think about the shift, because if he does, he suspects he’ll remember the expression on the boy’s face and smell vomit and feel the same hopeless fury at the fatal consequence of ‘kids being kids.’ So he says nothing more, closing his eyes and resting his head against the cool glass of the window shield. 

He only opens his eyes when Bobby pulls into their driveway. Pretending not to notice the concerned look the Georgian is directing at him, Nick manages a slight smile and says, "I’m gonna go take that shower." 

"Okay," is all Bobby says, but Nick can feel his watchful gaze all the way to the bathroom. 

The shower loosens the knots in his back and shoulders and eases the soreness of his muscles, and he is halfway to being relaxed when he changes into a pair of jeans. 

Hearing that the TV is on in the den, he calls, "Want a beer?" and grins at the affirmative response before grabbing them both some Coronas and heading out to the den. 

The beer is cool and the condensation mingles with the sheen of water still on his skin as he cradles his can in his hands and settles onto the couch next to Bobby. As they simultaneously pop open their beers, Nick is reminded of hot summer nights spent at the baseball stadium with his father and older brother as a teenager, and the knot in his stomach that he hadn’t even noticed was there slowly unravels. 

He takes a slow, appreciative sip of his beer and glances at the TV. Bobby’s watching some forensics show about the first man to be sentenced to death by the use of DNA, and Nick rolls his eyes. "Don’t you get enough of that at work?" He means for the comment to be light-hearted, but it comes out low and bitter, and Bobby is watching him carefully again. 

He frowns and takes another swallow of his beer, and doesn’t say another word, and after a moment, Bobby changes the channel to the Discovery Channel. That coaxes a grin from Nick, and after a moment, he says, "Sorry." 

Bobby shrugs. "Bad shift," is all he says, because that is explanation enough for Bobby to excuse almost all of the other man’s actions, and Nick nods. 

He nurses his beer for a long moment, listening as the show’s commentator drones on and on about a ‘particularly fascinating’ mammal, and after a moment, he reaches over for the remote and mutes the television. 

When Bobby shoots him a questioning look, Nick smiles a little and says, "Thought you mentioned something about a massage back at the cages." 

Bobby smiles at that. "Well, I _did_ promise a massage, didn’t I?" In a moment or two, they have shifted on the couch, and Bobby’s callused hands begin to knead the tension from Nick’s shoulders. 

Nick closes his eyes and leans a little into the familiar touch, and doesn’t open his eyes at Bobby’s soft, "Ya know if ya ever wanted t’talk ‘bout it, I’d listen." 

He is quiet for a moment, Bobby’s hands never faltering in their massaging of his shoulders. He remembers the one time he had ‘talked about what was bothering him’ -- when he’d told Catherine why he was so upset about the pedophile case. It had been like picking at a half-healed wound, and every word had been a punch to his gut, leaving him feeling sick for days. Nick cannot help but feel that ‘talking about it’ is overrated. 

"I know," he says at last, and swallows against the wave of nausea that rises up in him just thinking about his discussion with Catherine. He shrugs a little into Bobby’s grip. "Just a case of kids being kids with…real shitty results." 

Bobby doesn’t say anything, just continues the massage, and Nick cannot help but be grateful. 

There are many reasons why he loves Bobby Dawson. The man knows when to listen and when to speak up, for one thing. He also doesn’t take offense at Nick’s reticent nature when most people would. Not only that, but he’s understanding and caring and the type of person Nick’s always prayed he’d find. Most of all, though, he loves Bobby for moments like these, where the easy repetitive pressure of the Georgian’s fingers banishes the aches that even the hot shower hadn’t quite dispelled. 

Nick keeps his eyes closed, relaxing into Bobby’s touch, and thinks about the calluses on the other man’s hands, and the soft breath ghosting across his neck. Gradually, oh so gradually, the nausea fades away and he manages to relax for the first time since the start of his shift. 

"Thank you," he breathes out, and senses rather than sees Bobby’s smile. 

"Ya welcome," is all the other man says, and a light kiss is pressed to Nick’s shoulder before Bobby continues with the massage.   



End file.
